Daddy Dearest
by jcw124
Summary: A oneshot on the Winchester brothers' unfortunate childhood.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any characters!**

**1989**

As he walks briskly through the streets of Minneapolis, his fingers trembling for the familiar clutch of a cigarette between them, John Winchester is seething with anger. He marinates in it, permits the wrath and self-loathing to spread through his body like the blood his heart is pumping. He'd failed on a hunt for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Someone's son is dead because of him, because of his inability for courage to break through the surface in the presence of a fire.

A fucking _fire._

John has seen fire more than he'd like to, but he usually accepts it without his muscles bunching in irrational fear and saliva clogging his throat.

It wasn't something he couldn't control, either. This was a painless demon job to him; nevertheless, painless did not mean carelessness to John, and he was quick to instill that in his sons.

Just because you think something is simple, doesn't mean you can go in unprepared, inattentive, and negligent. That's what gets you killed!

Recollections of the last night enter his mind in quick bursts. The demon turning on the stove. The little boy, no more than Sam's age, huddled in the corner, already struggling to breathe as the stench of gas constricted his airways.

A pair of black pools for eyes laughing quietly as John seized his holy water and fired his salt rock gun.

And then everything was ablaze, just like that. Terrified, he pulled the trigger of his weapon over and over, his shots drastically off-kilter and his grip unbalanced. Flames licked at his flannel and Timberlands, the heat burning his eyes. A snap of the demon's fingers and John was blasted from the exploding house, his ears ringing with no perception, heart wildly out of time. Because he wasn't more responsible, a wake was being held for a baby boy today, Joshua Keller, aged six.

John feels he is obligated to go because he did this to Joshua. He may as well have held a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

But John also knows he cannot initiate eye contact with the parents of this boy. He will not be able to handle their faces, contorted in crippling agony. Maybe he can just offer them support, instead. He knows the impact of death all too well.

He snorts as he gets into his car. He is too much of a coward to try and offer support in time of need. Just ask his boys.

His boys. They have not crossed his mind since he arrived here three days ago.

John's long absences are usually cut short by a call from Bobby Singer, moaning and groaning about how much of a deadbeat father he is. Traditionally, it's followed by a heated argument between the two men, and a reluctant John returning to Sioux Falls for a night before whisking them away.

Because he did not have enough money on hand to afford a night in a motel, John begins driving towards South Dakota. The heating system in the car is broken, and quickly his fingers manage to turn to ice in the December chill. His mind is trying to work through the rage and self-deprecation it is drowning in. But it's futile, he knows it. John will never stop rubbing salt into his own wounds, twisting the knife to cut them deeper.

When he gets to Bobby's shabby house late the next morning, he is greeted with a steely glare and a mouth drawn taut.

"They're sleeping." He says dryly. John nods and follows him into the kitchen, digging his hands into the pockets of his puffy jacket. His joints ache with exhaustion and he wants to ask for coffee, but he knows Bobby will not give it to him unless he has concrete answers.

They sit across from each other at the kitchen table. "Where did you go, John?"

He tries to look past Bobby. "Minneapolis."

"Why?" A scuffling noise from upstairs makes their heads snap up. Instinctively, Bobby pushes himself up from the table to attend to whomever woke up. John doesn't know how to feel at this not being automatic to him, also.

Entangled in Bobby's arms is Sam, long bangs covering his eyes and chubby baby hands clutching the fabric of his shirt. Tossing John a warning look over his shoulder, he sets the kid in a chair. "Are you hungry, kiddo?"

"Yes!" says Sam, grinning.

"Take your pick." Bobby opens the pantry and Sam pours himself some Lucky Charms. Patting Sam's shoulder, Bobby beckons John to join him in the study and shuts the door.

"Now, why Minneapolis, Winchester?" John's jaw locks and he grinds his teeth together. Mary called him that, even when they were married.

"It was a demon job."

Bobby moves some lore books and Mason jars aside. "Don't seem that simple to me."

John feels his temperature rising and slams his palms on the desk. He's lightheaded and his stomach growls detestably. "I was being a bitch, Bobby. Happy now?"

The man shakes his head, pacing around the desk, and throws his hands in the air. "Just tell me what the hell happened and I'll help ya!"

John's breath hitches and he can't compose himself. His walls are cracking, his walls are coming down, and he's frightened of what level of destruction this will cause. He tells Bobby a half-truth in light of the situation. Revealing he was too weak to do what he needed to do would destroy his reputation. John never wants to be weak again in his life, and neither of his boys will be slapped with that shame or brand. He would teach them, and he would teach them well and without mercy from then on.

"The demon lit the house on fire."

Bobby folds his hands. An image of Karen flashes in his line of vision. He doesn't flinch; after all these years, he's used to it.

"The bastard."

"She got away, Bobby. And there was a boy…and I've never seen anyone more scared in my life. I failed him. The house exploded, and…" The story was tumbling out of John's mouth in jagged pieces. But there was an exception to John seeing someone more scared than Joshua.

That was Dean, four years old, being told to take his brother outside as fast as he could, don't look back, now Dean, go!

That day begins to mix with the hunt of two nights ago in John's head. Mary's screams melt into the angry crackle of the fire. A migraine drums its song in John's brain. He wants to pass out, but instead croaks out a meek "coffee" and grips onto the edge of the desk. Bobby leaves the room and John sits in an armchair, spots dancing in front of his eyes. He doesn't know how much time has passed when he feels a warm cup pressed against his white knuckles.

He sees Bobby's mouth moving, but no words coming out. John feels like his ears are stuffed with cotton.

"—you hear?" Bobby narrows his eyes.

John almost chuckles. "No."

"The hell is wrong with you? I said, you need a rest, John. You need to eat, to sleep—Hell, I suggest you shower and shave. The whole nine yards or you ain't leavin' with Sam and Dean."

"You can't control what I do with them, Bobby. If you wanted a damn kid you shoulda had one before you killed your wife." A hard force on the side of his face and a loud crashing noise resides John stunned. He's swinging before he knows what's happening, jumps on his feet and focuses his blurry vision on Bobby, who looks both sick to his stomach and outraged.

Bobby tugs his shirt collar towards him harshly, John's head loosely swinging up and down. They're eye-to-eye, wild blue to dazed hazel.

He is so close to John he spits, and snarls, "If you ever talk about her—ever again—I will shove your head so far up your ass you'll be sorry." He lets go and John lets himself fall with a soft thud.

He scrambles up to meet Bobby. "I'm sorry…I'm sorry..I don't know what's wrong with me Bobby. The hunt—"

"Who cares about the goddamn hunt anymore, boy? You got boys, little boys! Six and ten and one knows how to shoot a gun and throw knives? You insane, John? You shouldn't have taken this on! They need'a be kids, not little pawns in a game!"

Usually John would have punched him, or yelled his brains out and grabbed the boys by their wrists—_Daddy you're hurting me!_—to strap them into the car. But he felt naked without his strength or mask to hide his emotions with.

He swallows and strokes his beard. "Did Dean learn how to shoot a double barrel while I was gone?"

Bobby laughs. Bobby laughs at him mockingly. "You bet your ass he did not."

John pushes past him and bellows Dean's name throughout the house. The pasty-faced boy makes his way to the foyer, little Sammy gripping his hand tight.

"Yes, sir?"

"Did you learn the double barrel when I was gone?" Dean looks up at him. His father's eyes scream, disappointment! Failure! Disgrace! Pathetic!

His eyes water with fat tears and he shakes his head. Sammy squeezes his hand and sticks his thumb in his mouth.

Before he registers what exactly he is doing John draws his hand back and skin hits skin with a solid noise. The silence is deafening for a split second. In the next instant, Bobby is rushing over and consoling Dean, Sammy is crying, and time stands still with John.

Dean just stands there. He is not crying. He feels like he is rooted to the ground, holding his cheek with wide green eyes glued to the floorboards. Uncle Bobby is hugging him and stroking his hair. The poor boy is shivering and his freckles stand out like angry dark bruises on his face. Already, the swelling of his cheek is making him uncomfortable and fidgety.

Sam is playing with his brother's long, bony fingers. "It's okay Dean, it's okay," he whispers repeatedly, barely audible in the chaos. Bobby orders him to sit in the bathroom with Dean and a pack of ice. With a tiny smile, he sits Dean on the toilet seat and holds the ice against his face. For once, Sam is in charge. He likes such responsibility. It's such an easy job.

He listens to Bobby yell at John to get out, to catch a break, to live with Pastor Jim for a while. He'll hold down the fort. He'll help the boys. John's rasps are feeble, and the pounding of his boots eventually fades out. Sam looks over at his older brother.

"Are you feeling better?" He nudges him and scoots beside Dean on the toilet seat.

An unaccompanied shrug.

"Daddy's never hit much. Not that I remember. But he spanks me when I deserve it."

"You don't deserve it."

"Yeah, I do. He tells me so." The thumb is inserted into his mouth and Dean extracts it.

"You'll get a gap in your teeth if you carry on with that."

"Oh." Sam says. "Hey Dean?"

"What?"

"Was..Dad ever like…not mean?"

Dean turns on the faucet, sticks his hands in the sink, and washes some blood off of them. It's pink as it swirls down the drain. "Yeah."

Little feet swing up and down, up and down, up and down on the toilet seat. "When?"

"You were really small, dude. A baby. You wouldn't remember."

Sam giggles, all John's dimples. "So tell me!"

"Mom was still alive." Dean smiles to himself at the bittersweet memory. "We went to a baseball game. You and Mom were in one chair and me and dad in the other. We got cotton candy." He tries to make Sam remember. But he figures if he can't recall stuff that happened when he was a baby, neither can his brother.

"So what about Dad?"

"He caught a ball for me—" He corrects himself. "And you too. And everyone cheered and Mom smiled so big…she kissed him. I wish you could'a seen her, Sammy. She was just…great."

Sam is looking at him. His hazel eyes are giant saucers of admiration. For once, he isn't crying about the absence of their mother. He just takes it all in, curled next to Dean, nodding every once and a while about a certain detail.

"I love you." He murmurs to his shoes.

"I love you." Dean repeats.

It's a confusing word to the brothers, but it feels right then and there.

Yet it's still a puzzling word. For different reasons.

Mom and Dad always said it to each other, but why was Mommy so angry at Daddy on the phone that one time? What did she do wrong?

Daddy says he loves Sam, so why does he spank and smack and yell and hit?

John is an puzzle to his boys. He always will be.

**A/N: Every read and review is appreciated! Also, you can read my multichapter, Things We Lost in The Fire! Thanks guys! :)**


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